The oppressive gloom of the ancient forest finally breaks, giving way to open, rolling hills bathed in brilliant, golden sunlight. Far out on the horizon, the faint, jagged silhouette of stone walls and wooden rooftops cuts through the heat haze.
Henry pulls back the carriage's leather window flap, squinting into the glare. A wide, genuine smile breaks across his face.
"Sir Leonard!" Henry calls out, his voice filled with relief. "I can see a town up ahead. We'll be there in just a little while."
Inside the cabin, Leonard jolts awake, blinking away the heavy fog of a restless sleep. The moment his eyes clear, he finds Grace staring directly at him, a knowing, unreadable look in her sharp eyes. Beside her, Elsbeth immediately shifts her gaze, looking out the opposite window to avoid eye contact entirely, her knuckles whitening against her black book.
Embarrassed, Leonard scratches the back of his head, clearing his throat. "Sorry about nodding off... I was up the whole night keeping watch."
Grace chuckles softly, adjusting her silks. "No need to apologize to us, Leonard. The town up ahead is called Aval. It was named after a brave warrior, Aval, who saved the settlement from a massive horde of monsters a long time ago. It's a small town, but it's exactly what we need right now. We'll stop there to look up information regarding the roads ahead of us."
Leonard nods silently, his jaw tightening as he looks back out at the approaching gates.
Meanwhile, deep within the heart of the Central Kingdom, the atmosphere is suffocatingly different.
Inside the cavernous, vaulted halls of the Grand Cathedral, Sir Rowan sits silently on a polished wooden bench, waiting. He is completely unrecognizable. He has stripped himself of his towering, polished knightly armor, opting instead for a casual, loose peasant shirt with half-sleeves. His thick beard is freshly shaved, exposing a harsh, square jawline. The short sleeves reveal massive, powerful arms crisscrossed with deep, faded bruises—healed a long time ago, yet permanently etched into his skin. His long, white, silky hair is pulled back tight and tied into a neat ponytail.
He looks less like a royal protector and more like a dangerous man with nothing left to lose.
A church member dressed in pristine white vestments and adorned with silver holy accessories glides out from the inner sanctuary. He stops before the disgraced knight, bowing stiffly.
"You can now meet his grace, Sir Knight," the attendant says coldly.
Rowan stands without a word, his towering frame casting a long shadow as he follows the member through a set of giant doors.
Sitting in a high-backed chair at the center of the lavish room is the Bishop. He looks up from his desk, his expression a mask of manufactured serenity.
"May God bless you, Rowan," the Bishop purrs, resting his hands over his gold-embroidered robes. "What is it you are seeking? Is it peace of heart? My pupils can easily take care of your confessions; you did not have to look for me directly. I am a very busy man, as you can see."
Rowan steps into the room, the heavy doors clicking shut behind him. His voice is a low, dangerous rumble. "I was missing you a lot, Bishop. So I thought I'd pay you a visit. How about we talk alone?"
The Bishop waves a dismissive, manicured hand, signaling the white-robed member to leave. Once the doors seal them in, the Bishop sighs, shaking his head. "You have quite the way of speaking, Rowan. Be careful; it might offend someone. You should be kind, so that the heavens will be kind to you in return."
"I'm not here to talk about the the heavens or your kindness," Rowan snaps, stepping closer to the desk, his eyes burning. "Your Holy Knights were heavily stationed in the slums. They were there the exact same day the Jester got executed, waiting like they already knew something was going to happen. They drew their swords on me without any rational explanation—and they stabbed my son. I need an explanation."
The Bishop's expression remains completely flat, devoid of any guilt. "The Church received reports."
"About the Jester?" Rowan demands.
"About a dangerous individual," the Bishop replies smoothly.
Rowan leans forward, his voice vibrating with restrained fury. "And that justified drawing swords on me? On my son?"
"My knights acted according to their judgment," the Bishop says coldly.
"And where is this dangerous individual now?" Rowan asks.
The Bishop folds his hands together. "The creature escaped."
"Escaped?" Rowan repeats.
"Several of my men died attempting to stop it."
"Several?" Rowan asks.
"A tragedy," the Bishop says with a weary sigh.
Rowan studies him for a long moment.
"The knights he supposedly murdered," Rowan says at last, his tone turning razor-sharp. "Show them to me. Show me the bodies. Show me one single witness that isn't wearing your colors."
The Bishop pauses, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Pardon me?"
A heavy, suffocating silence fills the room. The Bishop's jaw tightens for a fraction of a second before he relaxes back into his chair, a thin, dismissive smile returning to his face.
"Your son drew steel against the See, Rowan. He killed a Holy Knight. It was a mere act of self-defense on our part. I ordered my men to stand down and leave him off the hook strictly because he carries your blood. You should rejoice that your boy is alive and breathing." The Bishop rubs his eyebrows, letting out a heavy sigh.
Rowan slowly straightens up, casting a deadly gravity over the entire room. "That's quite the explanation you've come up with. I'm afraid I have no choice but to believe it for now. But whatever happened, I just want you and Sire Theoron to know one thing..."
Rowan rests his hand on the edge of the mahogany desk, leaning in. "I will find out who orchestrated this. I will find out who snuck out the ivy poison because I'm at the end of my rope."
Rowan's eyes lock onto the Bishop.
The Bishop lets out a dry, mocking chuckle, though his posture remains stiff. "My heavens... is that a threat? Are you accusing us of doing everything that has happened? It's quite the blame, you see. You should hold your tongue before coming to such blasphemous conclusions."
The Bishop leans forward, his eyes glinting with a malicious, sharp pleasure. He decides to use his favorite weapon.
"Tell me, Rowan."
Rowan glares back, silent.
"Have you found the Princess yet?" the Bishop asks.
"No," Rowan answers flatly.
"Strange," the Bishop murmurs, his smile widening into something genuinely detestable. "A knight loses a princess. A father almost loses a son."
The Bishop places his hands together, his tone dripping with fake sympathy. "You seem to be having a difficult month."
Rowan doesn't flinch. He absorbs the blow and handles the lie effortlessly.
"The Princess wasn't in the right state of mind after everything that happened," Rowan says, his voice entirely smooth and steady. "She snuck out of the room before any of us noticed. I'm afraid I told everything to the chivalry already, so you don't have to worry. My first priority is finding her."
Rowan turns his back on the Bishop, walking toward the giant oak doors without waiting for a formal dismissal.
"Well then," he says. "I'll take my leave."
The heavy doors swing open.
For a brief moment, Rowan pauses at the threshold.
Without turning around, he speaks one final time.
"You know, Bishop... after all these years, I've learned something."
The Bishop remains silent.
"The truth has a strange habit of surviving."
Rowan steps through the doorway.
The doors close behind him with a thunderous boom.
Silence settles over the chamber.
The Bishop remains seated, the same calm smile resting on his face.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Then the smile slowly fades.
His fingers begin tapping against the polished armrest.
A soft knock echoes from outside.
"Enter."
The white-robed attendant steps into the room and bows.
"Your Grace?"
The Bishop stares at the closed doors for a long moment.
"Keep an eye on Sir Rowan."
The attendant blinks.
"Do you believe he knows something?"
"I believe," the Bishop says quietly, "that Sir Rowan has stopped accepting the answers he's given."
The attendant lowers his head.
"Understood."
The Bishop rises from his chair and walks toward the stained-glass window overlooking the central.
Far below, the city stretches beneath the sun.
His reflection stares back at him from the colored glass.
"One missing princess."
His eyes narrow.
His hand tightens behind his back.
"And now Rowan."
For the first time that day, the Bishop looks troubled.
"Find the princess."
The attendant bows deeply.
"At once, Your Grace."
As Rowan descends the cathedral steps, his thoughts drifts unwillingly towards Luan.
When I first met him, I saw the boy exactly as everyone else did.
A thing.
A cursed creature.
Something unsettling that belongs at the edge of his vision rather than in the center of it.
Yet somewhere along the way, that feeling has changed.
Rowan frowns.
He can't remember when.
Was it after watching the Princess speak to him?
After seeing the way she looked at him?
Or perhaps after seeing the way he looked at her?
The old knight shakes his head.
It makes no sense.
The curse was supposed to make people recoil from him.
Yet the more time I spent around the boy, the harder it became to see the monster everyone kept describing.
All I saw now was a stubborn fool willing throw himself into danger for others.
Rowan let out a slow breath.
Is it because of the Princess?
"Maybe I'm just getting old..."